


The Voice of Water

by Greysgate



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: A new evil has come to Sunnydale, one who whispers despair into the hearts of those closest to Buffy, and she discovers she is not immune to the siren song.





	The Voice of Water

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written after the horrifying Season Ender where Angelus killed Ms. Calender. I was so overwrought that I just had to dispense a little of my own "justice" to Angelus. But as usual, Joss Whedon did an excellent job of replacing Angel's soul in the television series. He scares me. And I bow to his brilliance.
> 
> Originally published under the name Victoria Rivers in 1998
> 
> Speaking from personal experience, suicide is a permanent answer to a temporary problem. Nothing is ever so bad that waiting another day, then another, won't fix the problem. If you can't see a way out, tell someone. Get help. There are people who care - family, friends, even strangers -- people waiting to help. Keep going, because what's waiting for you is WONDERFUL. You just have to be around long enough to find it.

_For a thousand years I have kept watch, listening to the voice of water, waiting for mankind to throw open the doors to destruction. For a thousand years I saw the pageant of daily struggle, of love and sorrow, joy and pain, waiting for your dangerous passions to rise and invite damnation. For a thousand years I hoped, but now the day has come and I must leave my lofty perch, hunting the demon your hatreds have freed again. I am bound by a magic older than time, a connection stronger than life, and it is with honor and pride that I keep the bargain my people made with yours eons ago. I come to save you, and in return, accept your scorn._  

Giles read the ancient inscription in an archaic, difficult Latin dialect and felt a distinct sense of foreboding. The piece of stone was part of an exhibit on loan from a Sarajevo museum, and the librarian had been asked to help with writing some of the guidebooks that would be traveling with the Bosnian artifacts. He made a rubbing of the worn, blurred text, and examined the pedestal upon which the inscription had been carved eons ago. It appeared as though something had been sitting on it for ages, an article of statuary perhaps, so he asked the curator where the fragment of pedestal had originated. 

"From a church," replied Dan Magnus offhandedly. "This piece was on a cathedral overlooking a beautiful fountain in the city square. The building had been standing since Medieval times, and the recent bombing over there brought it down. Rather than lose the artifacts completely, some of the better pieces were removed and sent away on this traveling exhibit until the troubles die down, to preserve them. Later on they'll be restored to their proper sites, but for now, they're safe with us." 

"A church, you say?" Giles repeated. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and glanced at the text again. "Overlooking a fountain?" 

The curator nodded and then stretched, leaning back in the chair behind his huge, artifact-littered desk. "There used to be a gargoyle on that pedestal, but nobody seems to know what happened to it. They'll probably find it one day in a crate at the Smithsonian." 

Pictures of hideous statuary suddenly flashed through Giles' mind, powered by his potent imagination, and he began to feel ill. _What better place than the Hellmouth to waken something sleeping in stone?_ he asked himself. He would have to warn Buffy to be on the lookout for such creatures, and he’d have to do some extra reading to find out how best to handle them. 

"Mmmm. Yes," Giles muttered. He turned back to his work, banging away on the old-fashioned manual typewriter as he made his notes. "Well, I think this is all I shall have time for today, Dan. See you tomorrow afternoon?" 

"I thought I'd take Sunday off, actually, Rupert," Magnus said with a yawn. "The exhibit doesn't open for another two weeks. That should give us plenty of time to get all the guidebooks written and keyed into the computer. We can print from there." 

Giles head jerked up from his methodical typing, and his eyes grew round with fear and revulsion. "Computer?" he asked gravely. 

"Oh, I'll have my son do that," Magnus assured him with a grin. "Those things scare the crap out of me, too, but Gary's a wizard with them. You just get me the notes and we'll take it from there. And thanks again, Rupert. I really needed the help since our Latin expert quit. If you hadn’t sent me that note about the Incan Mummy exhibit, I wouldn’t have known who to contact locally. I’m glad we got acquainted." He frowned. “I just wish I knew who trashed that plate and then went to all the trouble to glue it back together again. Doesn’t seem like the work of vandals. I mean, who would intentionally damage something like that and then—“ 

"Helping with the translation is my pleasure," Giles mumbled, guiltily wanting to distract the curator from his reverie. The librarian gathered up his notes and the rubbing of the inscription, and stumbled wearily out into the night toward his car. He had the unsettling sensation of being watched and scanned the darkened landscape for signs of predators, but no shadows moved, no footsteps crunched on gravel, and he decided to make haste toward home. He was tired, but something about the inscription bothered him, something he couldn't quite pin down, and he went to bed to seek the answer in his dreams.

Cordelia frowned at the script in her hand. "Why couldn't Shakespeare just speak English?" she demanded crossly. "This is like a foreign language or something!" 

Mr. Luna chuckled softly as he perched on the back of the auditorium chair. "This was written over 400 years ago, Cordelia," he teased her. "English has changed a lot since then. Language is a living thing, evolving with the passage of time." 

"So why can't we modernize this stupid play?" she asked. "It would be so much easier to remember the lines if Ophelia asks Hamlet straight out why he's behaving like such a jerk--" 

"The play's the thing," Mr. Luna shot back. "Part of the beauty of Shakespeare's work is his use of language." Luna stepped off the chair and wandered slowly up the aisle toward the stage. "If it's too difficult for you, though, we can certainly find someone else who--" 

"I didn't say I couldn't do it," she snapped, folding her arms and tucking the much dog-eared script behind her. She glared out into the shadowy auditorium toward where her new drama teacher stood, a lighter shadow against the darkness. He was definitely a babe, with his shoulder-length blond hair, his Brad Pitt smile and those riveting amber-gold eyes. And his casual manner, just short of flirting, made him even more of a Baldwin, especially since he dangled just out of reach of every female in the school. Even the teachers took notice, following him down the halls with their eyes, smoothing back their hair whenever he approached. And Cordelia staked out her claim early, not wanting to flirt seriously with him since he was officially an adult in every sense of the word, but determined to have him pay court to her as campus queen. 

"Then, by all means, Lady Ophelia," he cooed. "Let's see some emotion. Hamlet is driving you mad with his hot and cold moods, his unpredictable behavior. Show me what that feels like. If you can." 

Cordelia was very good at being Cordelia, but she had a lot of trouble stepping into someone else's shoes. Not that she would ever want to actually put on someone else's footwear, though. _Ewww!_ She just couldn't imagine why Ophelia tolerated Hamlet's abuse. Why didn't she smack him around a little? Especially when he told her to go hang with nuns. 

"Of course I can," she retorted boldly. But her Ophelia sounded as sarcastic and irritable as Cordelia felt, and Mr. Luna shook his handsome head, crossed his arms over his chest, and walked away just before the bell rang. She drooped, not so far as to actually hang her head or slump her shoulders, but the feeling was there. She had never felt quite so crushed, especially by a teacher’s comments. It wasn't as if she had never acted in a school play or done brilliant readings of Shakespeare. But somehow, the loss of Mr. Luna's worship was a major defeat, and she spent the rest of the day in contemplation of how best to make him idolize her like everyone else did. Or at least, how everyone else was supposed to. 

After school she sat in her car, waiting by the entrance to the auditorium, for Mr. Luna to come outside. She wanted to have a private chat with him, get his advice on exactly what he wanted from her portrayal. But when he exited from the stage doors, she saw that he was apparently deep in conversation with Gwen Smith, her understudy for the part of Ophelia. Gwen gazed up at Mr. Luna with those big, sad eyes of hers, adoring him with every word he spoke, and Cordelia couldn't tolerate that kind of fawning, unless it was being directed at her. She started the ignition, put the car in gear, and prepared to drive away. 

Until she noticed the janitor standing near the stage door, almost hiding in the bushes, a short broom and pick-up basket clutched in his bony hands, his attention fixed on the man and girl engrossed in conversation. Cordelia shivered delicately. Never had she seen anyone quite so ugly. The girls in her clique had tagged him "Quasimodo" for good reason, and the intensity of his gaze made Cordy take a second look at the object of his scrutiny. 

Mr. Luna was definitely to die for, in an old-guy kind of way. The afternoon sunlight made him glow like a new gold bracelet and his keen fashion sense impressed her mightily, as well as his stunning coif. But that killer smile of his was meltingly wasted on mousy little Gwen Smith. Cordy sighed, tweaked by yet another of life's little ironies, and stepped on the gas. Her car lurched forward, leaping like a wild beast over the concrete parking stop. She screamed and pounced on the horn and the brake all at once, but the car seemed to ignore her attempts at control and surged over the rounded concrete dike, heading straight for the stage door. 

The vehicle came to a dead stop inches away from Mr. Luna's knee, bouncing downward as if it had been struck by a very large, powerful blow. 

He glared at Cordelia, his displeasure almost audible as she flung herself out of the front seat. 

"I didn't do that, I swear!" she cried, pointing at the menacing steering wheel. It seemed to frown at her somehow. "It just came at you all by itself, Mr. Luna. I was practically standing on the brake!" 

His upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer. "No harm done, Cordelia," he said huskily. “Accidents happen.” 

Cordelia's mouth snapped shut as she watched him turn away. She distinctly heard more pitches in his voice than any human being could produce without a synthesizer. Gooseflesh popped up on her arms, and she quickly rubbed the ugly bumps away before anybody saw them. It took her several moments to pull herself together enough to actually get back in the car, but once inside the thing behaved the way all cars do, obeying her every turn of wheel and mash of pedal. Carefully she backed into the parking lot and started to drive away, but something made her glance at the bushes again before leaving the campus. 

Quasimodo was still there, watching her with those strange, piercing gray eyes of his.  

She shivered again, glared right back at him, and lifted her chin defiantly as she motored off. 

Buffy breezed into the library toward the end of the day, ready to meet with Giles for her daily Inquisition, barring the discovery of invisible psychos, demons or other such slayage. She had plans for her afternoon, which included the happy excitement of a used car quest. Her dad had promised to buy her one as an advance on her allowance for the year, which was ultimately a do-able deal. With the money her mom gave her for gas and necessary clothes shopping, she was sure she could make it on less cash if she had her own wheels. After all, she was 17 and had her license (though she never got to drive her mom’s car by herself), and cars were up there on the list of Important Things Teenagers Need. 

Looking forward to a hunt for Something Good for a change, she was in a bouncy mood when she gave her favorite librarian her usual teasing harassment. "Read any good books lately, Giles?" 

He sat at the table with large, dusty tomes strewn all around him, stacks of them sitting on the floor beside him and more piled up in nearby chairs. "Did you know that there are gargoyles in virtually every culture in the world?" he mused aloud. "Not in exactly the same form, naturally, owing to ethnic and artistic differences, but every race in existence has such creatures in their legends. Most of them are protectors, but in some isolated places in Eastern Europe--" 

"Giles, you're entirely too gleeful about icky things," Buffy groused, her good mood suddenly deflating at the thought of chasing ugly statues all over the place after dark. She’d rather be dreaming about shiny new used cars. "Can't we have a shopping demon that spends way too much money and gives all the good stuff away to innocent bystanding Slayers instead?" 

He spared her an irritated glance and did not grace her petulant outburst with a reply, getting down to business instead. "Buffy, I have reason to believe that we may have a gargoyle on the loose in Sunnydale, and I'd appreciate it if you'd show a little more respect for your calling. This could be a serious problem here." 

She plunked down on an uncluttered corner of the table and wilted slightly. "Aren't they all?" 

"These creatures are also referred to as demons, albeit controllable ones, in several texts," he began, opening a cracked leather volume and pointing to barely-readable, tiny print next to a gruesome woodcut print depicting a goat-headed, winged beastie lunching on a terrified beggar with an eyepatch. Buffy looked away, trying very hard not to listen. _"Bratevsky’s Compendium_ states that they often guarded their master's dwellings or property with extreme prejudice, attacking anyone who tried to get in without the correct incantation of pacification. They’re also recorded as visiting their own form of particularly brutal justice on evildoers caught in the commission of a crime in their immediate vicinity. This could conjure up some rather unpleasant atrocities for Sunnydale, if one doesn't know the proper magicks to impose one’s will upon the creature." 

"I don’t suppose there’s a _Gargoylese For Dummies_ in there somewhere?" she asked casually, glancing around at all the books no longer gathering dust.

"It appears the incantations were rather personal in nature," Giles returned distractedly. "And the gargoyles seemed to be bound to certain families or buildings, rather than individuals. If one has gone _ronin_ here, it is possible that there may be no way of restraining it at all. And nothing I've read suggests mortality in any form. They seem to be… um… rather invincible, impervious to the ravages of time, illness or injury." He was frowning heavily now, becoming more disturbed with each passage he read. 

“What does that mean? That _ronin_ thing you said?” 

“Um… it’s a Japanese term for a masterless _samurai_ or warrior.” 

"So there's no way to kill one of these things?" Suddenly Buffy was becoming interested. And not in a good way. 

"Not to my knowledge." He closed the book and met her worried gaze. "Till now I always thought they were just fearsome statues, placed on churches to deter evil from entering sanctified grounds, but apparently not." 

This was becoming considerably more serious than Buffy was prepared to handle at the moment, and she was sliding quickly into full pout mode. "There goes my afternoon of car-hunting. Do they only come out at night?" 

"Who, assistant principals in drag?" quipped Xander as he swung through the library doors. 

"Gargoyles," Buffy replied more lightly than she felt. 

"Ugly rock guys hanging off the roofs of castles and stuff?" 

"Xander, you have such a gift with adjectives," Giles groaned sarcastically. He quickly turned his attention back to Buffy. "The books do speak of another form the creatures are able to assume, but nothing is written about what that might be." 

"So they could be Mrs. Warmke, the Home Ec teacher," Xander offered hopefully, "or Quasimodo the janitor. Man, if anybody's a gargoyle, it's got to be him. Though Mrs. Warmke runs a close second. If she could ever get both eyes to focus on the same thing at once..." He shuddered. "Cancel that thought. Too horrible to contemplate. She's _got_ to be the one." 

Buffy gave him an amused smirk and crossed her arms over her chest. "Does this have anything to do with the laundry accident?" 

Xander shot her a panic-stricken glance and held up both hands in supplication, taking a quick half step backward. "It wasn't me! I swear I was nowhere near the Home Ec room at the time!" 

She gave him the full smile anyway, and nudged his boot with her toe to draw him back to Reality. "Hey, I was hoping to do some car shopping this afternoon. Wanna come?" 

"As in, ‘do I know anything about cars and can I offer you some helpful buying hints,’ or do you want me to handle the haggling? Either way, you can't lose." 

"Nah. I just think the fat old balding guy trying to sell his '65 Mustang might be a little less apt to hit on me if I bring my own guy with me," Buffy returned smoothly. Not that she couldn't handle any guy that might have ideas, but she just didn't want the ideas to jump in there in the first place. 

"Mustang! All right! Where is it?" 

"Down, boy. Gotta check the paper first." She turned her attention reluctantly back to Giles. That he hadn't canceled her plans already was a good sign, and she had hopes that her car shopping might actually be a possibility. "Any words of wisdom before we exit, stage left?" 

"While you're out and about, you might take notice of some of the local architecture," the Briton suggested dryly. "Check for possible perches and such. The creature might cling to old habits, and seek out an appropriate aerie to carry out its observation of the citizens of Sunnydale." 

"Gotcha." Buffy and Xander left together, heading out into the afternoon with automotive gossip flashing between them. 

It was almost dinner time when they pulled up at the white Victorian house on Church Street. A large sign stood on the front lawn proclaiming the psychic powers and Tarot talents of Madame Yeva, complete with the all-seeing eye and a red handprint that stood for palm reading. A 1990 Trans Am was parked beneath a nearby carport, with a “For Sale” sign visible in the rear windshield. Buffy made straight for the car, a pristine white beauty with hardly a scratch or dent to be seen. Even the interior looked prime, and Xander wiped a little drool off the corner of his mouth as he stepped back to look at the total effect. He could easily picture himself in the driver's seat rather than Buffy. She could sit in the other front seat. Or his lap, as necessary. 

"So what do you think, Mr. Goodwrench?" asked Buffy, coming to stand beside him. 

"It definitely says ‘test-drive’ to me. " He ran a hand appreciatively over the rear bumper and found himself thinking of Cordelia. “Could I borrow it sometimes?”  

"Let's go talk to Madame Yeva," Buffy suggested. "Maybe she sees a deal in her future." 

Xander didn't stop staring at the car until he got inside the house, and the door closed behind him. 

He rounded on the face of Sunnydale High's new janitor, and jumped back a step in surprise. "Whoa! Mr. Mahmood! Hey, fancy meeting you here. You’re not Madame Serena, are you?" A biting remark sprang to his lips, but this guy was neither Cordelia nor a vampire, so he stowed it away for future use. 

Mahmood's frown multiplied in intensity a hundred fold, but he said nothing.

 "That's Madame Yeva," Buffy corrected, now facing the woman advertised outside. She smiled, hardly expecting to see a red-haired goddess appear in the foyer. "Hi, we've come to ask about the car." 

Madame Yeva wore a light sweater and jeans that hugged her womanly curves and drew Xander's delighted eyes immediately. She smiled and laughed lightly in greeting, then came forward to shake their hands. Her hand lingered for a moment in Xander's grip, and she turned his hand over to briefly examine his palm, but as she took Buffy's hand her smile disappeared abruptly. 

All humor and pleasantry vanished from her face. She met Buffy's wondering gaze evenly, and checked the girl's palm as well.  

Buffy snatched her hand back and clasped both of them behind her back as if she had been caught with them in the cookie jar. "We came about the c _ar,"_ she repeated emphatically. 

Madame Yeva spoke brusquely to Mr. Mahmood in a foreign language that rolled beautifully off her tongue. He bowed to her slightly and went into the depths of the house, leaving her alone with the visitors. When she turned her attention back to them, she smiled again, but there was a sadness in her eyes that had not been there a moment before.  

"Come into my office, please," she invited them warmly. As she led them into the adjoining room, she extolled the virtues of the car, as well as describing its faults in apparently honest detail, and set a price. She sat down on a love seat facing a small sofa where Buffy and Xander had seated themselves. As she talked, Madame Yeva took a deck of Tarot cards from a carved wooden case on her desk, shuffled them and began to deal them out, face up, into a circular pattern on the table before the teens. 

"Um, don't do that," said Buffy nervously. 

"No charge, my young friend," said Madame Yeva warmly. 

Buffy leaned back against the sofa, staring at the cards as they were laid out. They were different from the ones she had seen occasionally in Giles’ books in the library. The images were kind of Slayerish in nature, showing things like werewolves and monsters. Lots of them. Her complexion paled beneath her makeup. "No. I don't want to know my future. I already have a pretty good idea what's in store for me." 

Madame Yeva cocked her head and laid another card on the glossy oak table, the King of Swords. "You might be surprised," she argued gently. With a smile she added another card and glanced at Xander. "Besides, what harm can looking at a few pretty cards do, eh?" She finished the circle and laid more cards across the four cardinal points, plus two more crossed over the center of the circle. 

The figures at the cardinal points reminded Buffy of the important people who surrounded her: Giles was the King of Swords; Xander, the Wise Fool; Willow, the Queen of Wands, and Buffy’s mother was the Queen of Cups. Curiosity kicked in until she glanced at the two final cards the gypsy laid on the table. Death and The Lovers lay in the middle of the circle, and the meaning of that was all too clear. 

"There will be a great change in your love life," said Madame Yeva, pointing at the cards.  

Buffy hugged herself, remembering. She had made love to Death, in the form of a vampire. She didn't want to be reminded. "That's already happened," she said softly. She couldn't take her eyes off the pictures. 

"This card does not mean 'Death' literally," Madame Yeva explained patiently. "It represents change.   There _will be_ great change in your love life. This is in the future, not the past. I know your past already." She smiled warmly, and held her right hand in her left, massaging it gently where she had briefly held the girl’s palm in hers. "You are the Slayer, and you do me great honor to come to my home." 

Both teens stared at her in shock. 

A knock sounded on the door, and a moment later a teenage boy walked softly into the room.  

"Hello," he said in heavily accented English. "Welcome. I am Blaz Camlo. My... Mahmood says you would like to drive the car." He held out the keys tentatively toward Buffy with a hesitant glance toward Xander. 

"Joyride!" crowed Xander, and bounced off the couch. He rubbed his hands together and raised his eyebrows at Buffy. "Let's go check this baby out, shall we?" 

Buffy stared at the circle of cards a moment longer, then stood with an apologetic yet relieved smile. "Gotta go, but thanks anyway."  

Madame Yeva smiled her acceptance and rose from her seat to see them off. As the trio started for the door, she caught Xander by the wrist and asked him quietly to stay.  

Not one to turn down a beautiful woman for anything but tempted mightily by the memory of the muscle car outside, he noticed the inviting gleam in her eye, the secretive smile tugging at one corner of her painted lips, and hormones flared. He walked with her back to the sofa, the test-drive and Buffy temporarily forgotten. "Poker?" he offered lightly. 

"I'm sure that would be fun, also, but I thought you might like me to lay the cards for you while your friend test drives the car," Madame purred. She had his attention with the husky invitation in her voice, and she intended to make the most of it. She scooped up the cards and put the deck away, taking another deck from a silver tray on one end of the table. It was a fresh deck with the traditional Rider-Waite designs on the cards, still sealed in the plastic wrapper. She handed the deck to him to open and shuffle, and then she laid the cards out in a completely different design, rows and columns that made a long rectangle. She explained to him what they meant as she turned them over, then fell silent as she contemplated the message of each grouping. When she was done Xander was smiling, sitting with his arms relaxed along the back of the sofa, at ease with himself and the fortune teller.

Buffy started the car easily, admiring the smooth purr of the engine. She felt a little uneasy with this stranger in the car with her, but she couldn’t stay nervous for long with a kid her own age, and she started to relax as she drove. Still, she didn't know what to say to him and simply concentrated on driving. The car was fun, and the longer she sat behind the wheel, the more excited she got. She could easily picture herself driving it to school and back, down to the mall or the Bronze, to the store for her mom (a great point for applying pressure to a reluctant parent), and maybe even to an after-school job. She wanted that car, and the price was exceptionally reasonable for that kind of quality. Virtually every other car she had seen that day had sucked, and this one didn't in a major way. She hoped she could convince them not to sell it to someone else before she finished her sales pitch to her dad. 

She started to speak to her passenger and glanced sideways at him with a smile. He was looking right at her, his big hazel eyes all soft and puppy-dog warm. There was an innate kindness in his whole face, in his voice, as though he might be on the verge of a poem or apology at any given moment. He seemed nice enough in a foreign-kid-in-a-new-country kind of way. Not nervous at all. And that kind of bugged her. 

"You are strong," said Blaz casually. "That is good in a Slayer." 

Buffy flinched, startled. "Jeez, does everyone know now?" She sighed. "Not my favorite subject for conversation, Blaz. Is that really what they call you -- Blaz? No nickname or anything?" 

He smiled, and big dimples cleaved his cheeks. "You give me one, Slayer," he teased. 

"That's Buffy. Buffy Summers." She almost held out her hand to shake, but inside a car while driving was not the best place for that maneuver. After a brief screech of tires she placed both hands firmly back on the wheel. "Boo! Bad stop sign. Not a good place to put one." 

"Boo?" 

"As in Not Having Fun. Or possibly Scary Thing, if you're the passenger and not the driver." She smiled apologetically with half a shrug. 

"I like that. Boo. Is it a good nickname?" 

"Is it--" Buffy's eyebrows twitched together. She guessed he must not have a very good grasp of the English language, but then sometimes she didn't either. If he wanted to be called Boo, then so be it. She decided not to tell him that it was also a nickname for marijuana. "Boo is good. Boo Camlo. Has a nice ring to it. Do you go to school, Boo?" 

His smile faded. "Where I come from there are few schools. Most of them have been bombed to rubble, and the children hide in basements with their families." 

Buffy felt his pain, empathized with it. "We have a pretty good school here. No bombs, no terrorists. Unless you count cheerleaders and the drama class." Frowning as she remembered that Sunnydale sat smack dab on top of the Hellmouth, she added, “You kinda also have to ignore the vampires, organ-harvesting demons and the occasional werewolf, but if you’re careful at night, things can work out.” She smiled again, this time with genuine warmth. "You should come. Meet and greet. I could introduce you around. Just don't tell anyone that I'm the Slayer, 'kay? I kinda like to keep that quiet. People think I’m weird enough as it is." 

"Your secret is safe with me." He smiled again momentarily, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. "I wish to know, have you dealt with any demons yet?" 

"Let's not go there," she said firmly. "Let's _so_ not go there." 

"Living on the Hellmouth as you do, I just thought…" 

Buffy sighed wearily. "Demons, vampires, giant bugs, blobs and snaky things, you name it, I've staked it. I know how to handle myself. But really, Blaz, let’s talk happy things, like pretty, shiny cars. Please? I’ve got enough dark, depressing stuff in my life already." 

“As you wish,” he agreed with a soft, secretive smile, and gave her silence instead. 

At the next available driveway, she turned the car around and headed back to the fortune teller's house, aware that she had spent quite enough time test-driving the car and was ready to make her decision. 

"I know what it is like, always to be on the outside, always looking out for others before yourself." 

She didn't look at him, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the road, but the sympathy in his voice struck a chord inside her. Deeply. She reached for the radio and switched it on as a diversion, discovering the current owner's taste was heavily Mozart. Her finger didn't quite land on the "scan" button before Blaz grabbed her wrist in his long-fingered hand, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. 

She couldn't help glancing at his hand gripping hers, and then throwing a questioning look his way. 

He didn't see it. His eyes were closed, his head back against the seat rest, his face pulled into a grimace of pleasure-pain that grabbed at Buffy's heart and held on. A cello sounded, playing a melancholy solo that filled the interior of the speeding car, and still Blaz did not move, holding her wrist at the radio controls, suspended in mid-air. Tears began to seep out of the corners of his eyes and stream down his face, and the grimace became an expression of soul-deep sadness. 

"Are you okay?" she asked gently. 

"In Sarajevo there was a man who played the cello in the square every day," whispered Blaz. "He played this piece once. It was beautiful." He took a deep breath and let go of her wrist, wiping his cheeks with his palms as the song ended. "He played while shells exploded all around him, played when no one would listen. No one but me." 

"You're from Bosnia, where that war's going on?" Buffy was surprised that she knew that detail, but on further inspection of that factoid realized she had no clue where Bosnia was, except not in North America. At least, she didn’t _think_ it was. 

He nodded. "Beautiful music." After a long moment, he swallowed and turned tragic eyes on her and added, "Some soldiers came to the square one day and murdered him while he serenaded me." 

Buffy turned her attention back to her driving, taking note of the sign in the front yard up the street, guiding her back to his home. "That's terrible. Did you see it happen?" 

Blaz curtailed his tears, and nodded again. "I felt it in the depths of my soul. They spilled his blood in the fountain, broke his cello, and left his body there as a warning. They wanted no beauty in their war. They did not care what damage their act did." 

"I'm sorry, Boo. Kids like us shouldn't have to see things like that." 

A short, sharp laugh punctured her moment of sympathy. "Kids," he echoed. "We are not kids, you and I. Too much death chases childhood away forever." 

Buffy pulled the car carefully into the shelter and cut the engine. She removed the keys with a sad smile. "You're right, Boo. It does change us. And not in a good way." 

They headed back into the house together, a bond having formed quickly between them. Buffy bounced onto the sofa next to Xander with a look that questioned his relaxed manner and the smile on the fortune teller's face. Almost as an afterthought she remembered that she still had the car keys in her hand, and held them out to Blaz, who took them. 

"Great car," she told him. "I need to talk to my dad and have him come look at it, but I can already tell you I want it. Will you hold it till he can --" 

Madame Yeva nodded toward the keys, and Blaz dropped them into her open palm. A look passed between them, one that spoke volumes. He bowed his head in a deferential manner toward her and waited. The psychic held out the keys to Buffy once more. "Five dollars," she said quickly. 

" 'Scuse me?" asked Buffy. 

"Five dollars, and the car is yours." 

Buffy and Xander exchanged a disbelieving glance. "But you said --" 

"You're the Slayer," said Madame Yeva. "You protect us. I can't give you the car, because that would be an insult to my people. But I can sell it to you for that ridiculous amount, as my gift to you. Do you want it?" 

Buffy dug into her purse for every penny she had, and laid the full amount on the table. She turned to Xander with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “So how do I tell my mom I bought _that_ car for five bucks?” 

Xander grinned. “You could leave it with me for a few days, and when dear old dad comes through with the cash – it’s party time!” he offered exuberantly. 

Buffy gave him a withering look that had absolutely no effect on him. “I think I’ll just park it down the street from my house till Dad sends me the money and put it in the bank. But thanks anyway, Xander. You’re such a big help.” 

“Then we have a deal.” Madame Yeva spat into her right palm and extended her hand to Buffy to seal the agreement. 

Reluctantly the teenager followed suit, then gratefully accepted the tissue the psychic seemed to produce out of nowhere to wipe her hand clean.  

Buffy could hardly contain her excitement as she pushed Xander toward the door, but Madame Yeva halted her with a word.  

"Come to me later, when you’re ready," the redhead offered. "I will read the cards for you then. It’s not as bad as you think.” 

Buffy mumbled her insincere thanks and urged Xander out the door ahead of her. When they were gone, Madame Yeva turned toward Blaz with an apologetic smile. 

"You lied to them," he said flatly. 

"It was necessary," the psychic returned. "Did you manage to convince her to introduce you at the school?” 

Blaz nodded reluctantly.  "It was her own idea.  I didn't have to suggest it."

The gypsy woman fixed him with a satisfied gaze. “Tomorrow when she returns to take you to Sunnydale High, you’ll hunt there.” 

"If she finds out who I am, she'll come after me," he predicted darkly. "She's the Slayer. It's what she does." 

"Mahmood and I will protect you from her if we must," Yeva promised him. "It’s our sacred duty, and she's only a girl, after all." 

He shook his head, sadness warring with a spark of anger in his eyes. "She's far more than that, Yeva. But I cannot allow her to interfere. If she gets in my way, I will take care of her however I must. Be prepared for that. And when my hunt is over, I expect you and Mahmood to disappear, as we agreed. I need you only for shelter while I walk in the light. Keep your advice to yourself." 

"Yes, Dark One." She bowed her head slightly toward him, unwilling to see the unnatural light shining from his eyes as he regarded her. After he left the room, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to quell the revolt in her belly before she turned back to her work. She scooped up the cards still lying on the table and shuffled them, sprinkled a little salt from a nearby bowl on them to purify the deck, and put it back into the storage box in anticipation of her next customer. 

The doorbell rang and she opened it eagerly to the gentleman on the other side. 

"Hello, Mr. Snyder. How nice to see you again," she cooed, and swung the door wide to allow the short, balding man entrance to her home and office.

Buffy found herself babbling away at Blaz the next morning as they arrived on campus. She accompanied him to the registrar's office and was waiting for him outside when Willow and Xander accosted her. 

"Did you hear?" Willow whispered, as though someone might eavesdrop. "Gwen Smith killed herself last night!" 

"That mousy girl in the drama class?" asked Buffy, not exactly sure who Gwen Smith was, but trying desperately to attach a face to the name anyway. "Anything abnormal about her suicide? Like, maybe missing body parts or such? Gargoyle tracks nearby?" 

"Well, there's the added gruesome twist that, before she sliced her wrists, she spiked the bath water with every bottle of booze her parents had in the house, thereby assuring she'd go out totally wasted in addition to bloody," mused Xander with a darkly offhanded tone that clearly illustrated his inner wiggins. “That’s one way to avoid a hangover.” 

"And there was no note," added Willow. "Isn't that something all suicides are supposed to do, so everybody else knows why they did it, since they can't explain for themselves?" 

The Slayer frowned. "I guess. Not that I'm any great expert on the subject. Maybe she stuck it in a book and they just haven't found it yet." 

"They should check her algebra book. If anything would make you leap off the edge, it'd be that." Xander glanced out the glass doors in the nearby foyer to check out the parking lot in the sunshine outside. "So, did you drive in today?" 

Buffy bobbed a deliriously happy nod, grateful for the change of subject to something more pleasant. "It's out in the parking lot. Look!" She held up the keyring, and for the first time noticed the design on the fob. It seemed to be a pair of wavy lines on one side of the enameled metal disc, like the ancient symbol for water, and the other side was painted all black except for a silver cross embossed in the middle. It had a pointy bottom -- like a stake. And hovering above and behind the cross were a pair of silver eyes with a rather demonic slant to them. It definitely rang oogy bells. 

She frowned. "Do we know if the Watchers have a symbol?" 

Everybody stared at the fob. 

"Do we _care_ if the Watchers have a symbol? And is this the Wet Willie branch?" asked Xander, studying the wavy lines.  

Buffy quickly removed the fob from the keyring and stuck it into the coin pocket of her jeans. The keys went into another, roomier pocket and she glanced at her watch. "I'll talk to Giles about it later. Meet you guys at lunch. I'm walking Boo to class first." 

"Boo?" asked Willow hopefully. 

"I'll explain," Xander offered, draped his arm around her shoulder and led her off in the direction of enforced learning. 

But Buffy couldn't get the image on that disc out of her head, not even when Blaz gave her his warm, friendly smile, and asked where to find the Home Ec classroom, then made his exit. She liked Blaz, and the fact that the unnerving symbol had come from his hand bothered her a lot. She didn't want to be drawn to another Angel. Not even if he was as cute and nice as Blaz seemed to be.

Giles peered out from between the stacks at the sound of the library doors swinging open, and smiled nervously. Buffy was due to arrive any minute, and he didn't want her dropping any comments that might be misconstrued by a visitor. He recognized the new drama teacher immediately, and hurried toward him. 

"Mr. Luna, isn't it? What may I do for you?" 

The blond man took a quick glance around the room, obviously taking note of the disarray on the study table directly in line with the door. "Well, I was going to ask for a book of Sylvia Plath's poetry, but I'm not sure you'd know where to find it," he mused idly. He watched Giles exit the stacks and hurry to find the proper section. Thrusting his elegant hands into his blazer pockets, he shrugged slightly. "I've often found that people's offices are symbols of their lives, Mr. Giles, and yours seems to be quite a mess." 

Giles stopped in his tracks momentarily as the weighty truth of that seemingly innocent observation struck home. Hard.  

“Things not working out like you thought they would?” Luna prompted, as if he could read Giles’ mind. “It’s so sad when that happens. Failure is such a burden.” 

The librarian found the book and, settling his hands over it, Giles felt the mantle of failure sitting heavily on his shoulders once more. He had been a disappointment to his father, slacking off on his studies until late in life, and even after years of struggle and momentous dedication to his position as Watcher, he wasn't where he should be. 

He sighed, swallowed hard, and the book seemed to tumble off the shelf on its own. He barely reacted in time to catch it. Blinking back tears in his eyes, he walked slowly toward the other man with the book outstretched. _"Bell Jar,_ wasn't it?" he asked, a note of weariness in his voice. He couldn’t seem to find the strength to look the other man in the eye, afraid Luna might see how right he was. 

"Didn't get much sleep last night?" asked Luna. He cocked his head slightly and smiled with pity. "You could use a rest, don't you think?" 

"Rest... yes," mumbled Giles. He handed the book over and turned away, forgetting to remove and stamp the card tucked into the pocket glued at the back of the book. 

Luna did it for him. 

Both men turned when the doors swung open again, and Buffy Summers burst into the library. Her casual greeting died on her lips and she swung away from the adults with a brief, automatic smile instead. She deposited her books on the study table and began to stack up the dusty old tomes as if making space for herself to study. 

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Luna beamed as he strode over to the table to greet her. "I'm the new drama teacher. Do you have an interest in the theater? Performance arts? You've got the look for it." 

Buffy recoiled slightly from his overly interested gaze. "Um, no. Sorry. Don't have time." She gave him a polite but frosty smile and sat down, burying her head in the nearest of her school books to avoid him. He might be the talk of Sunnydale High, but something about him rubbed her the wrong way and left a rash behind. 

"You come and see me, if you should suddenly make room in your busy schedule," he offered silkily. "We could use a bright star on our horizon." 

The Slayer sat motionless behind the book for a moment as if considering, then lifted her head and smiled back at him warmly. "Thanks. I think I'll do that. Might be fun." Then her shoulders slumped a little. The emotions she was feeling seemed almost unnatural, zipping up and down like a roller coaster ride. "You think I'd be any good?" 

"One never knows. But there is a certain... strength about you that draws me. I shall have to find the proper part for you to read." He perched for a moment on the edge of the table, glancing over some of the titles of the old books stacked all around her. _"Legendary Gargoyles of Notre Dame,"_ he read aloud. " _Creatures of the Night... A History of Lycanthropy..._ Rather interesting subject matter you keep at a school library, Giles. I'm surprised most of these books haven't been banned from the student population."

 He eased himself off the table and threw an intense look at the librarian, standing numbly several paces away. "Perhaps you should reconsider your calling. You might be doing more damage to these young minds than you realize. Someone could get hurt…" Luna swung out of the room with a pleasant word of parting for Buffy, his book of poetry still on the table where he had been sitting. 

Buffy watched him go, and afterward sat staring at the door for several minutes. She seemed to fall suddenly out of her reverie and remembered why she had come to see Giles. Reaching into her jeans pocket, she retrieved the key fob and handed it to him. "Have you ever seen anything like this before, Giles?" 

He just stood there, staring off into space. 

"Earth to Giles. Is anybody home?" 

The connection took a fraction longer to make, but he held up the medallion and gave it a cursory look. "No, I've never seen anything like this before," he answered without thinking. "But I'll certainly research it for you, Buffy. Are you going out on patrol tonight?" 

She nodded. "I think I'll check out Gwen Smith. I know she was supposed to be a suicide, but on the Hellmouth, ya never know." 

"Yes. Do be careful." Giles gazed off at nothing as Buffy collected her books and swept all the light out of the room with her. All he could think about was the vast failure of his entire life, and how dangerous it was for him to continue to exert his influence on the group of teenagers under his care. Everyone would be better off without him, and safer as well.  

With tears in his eyes he sat down at the study table and gazed at the medallion, not seeing it at all.

Buffy took Blaz to the mall after school, treating him to hamburgers and ice cream, neither of which he had ever tried before. The hamburgers sent him into paroxysms of bliss, and the Slayer was totally charmed. Homework was completely forgotten as she gave him the grand tour, including several hours of games at the video arcade. She was stunned by his reflexes and the accuracy of his aim, and watched him rack up record-breaking scores on virtually every game he tried. He was awesome – almost as good as she was -- and she felt the bond between them strengthening as they played together.

 She took him to her home, knowing her mother wouldn't arrive from the gallery for hours yet. Under the pretense of doing homework, she dragged out all the school books and laid them out on the coffee table along with some iced soft drinks, and put on some CDs to play in the background. Her mom had some classical stuff, so she put one of those on after a _Toad the Wet Sprocket,_ just to start things off.  

She watched him as she moved about the room, studying his profile, the apparent softness of his thick black hair in its classy short Caesar do, just begging to be touched. She was attracted to him, and that scared her a little. She didn't want to go with anyone else where she had been with Angel. But she also didn't want to be alone. She wanted someone to share occasional smoochies with, someone who understood what she was going through as Blaz seemed to do. Her life was complicated, and she didn’t know what to do about being Buffy and The Slayer all at the same time. 

"That keychain," she began as she strolled toward the sofa, intentionally stalling. "Where’d you get that? It's kind of an unusual design." 

"It is the symbol of my people," he answered quickly, meeting her eyes. 

Buffy felt as if she could see right into his soul. It was dark in there, and lonely. That touched her deeper than she wanted to admit. She knew that feeling intimately. 

"Gypsies?" 

"Some call us that. We are of the Kaulo Camlo tribe. Black gypsies. Beautiful black gypsies." 

"I'll say," her mouth agreed before she could stop it. 

He smiled, and hung his head shyly. "I'm not used to compliments." 

She sat down beside him. "Or being with people, either. Right? You must’ve been alone a lot in Bosnia." 

His smile faded into serious admiration for her astute observation. "I've been alone for a very long time," he admitted. He could smell her scent, the light perfume she wore as well as the wonderfully feminine aroma that was uniquely hers, and it was intoxicating. His sense of smell was so sharp that being so close to her was almost painful. 

"I've never been in a war," she whispered, involuntarily drawing closer to him, slowly. Slowly. 

"Yes, you have," he corrected. "Every night, when you go hunting, Buffy, you are a soldier in a war. You are the army of humanity, the best your people can offer." He swallowed hard. That he was struggling internally was obvious, and he seemed to be losing the battle. 

She could feel his breath on her lips, they were so close. His sympathy and understanding drew her closer still, until their lips touched in a brief kiss. The shock of his unexpected lack of warmth made her draw back sharply, startled and wary.  

Blaz was _cold._ Not like he’d just been sitting too close to the air conditioning vent in the car… more like he was fresh off a slab at the morgue. Blaz couldn’t be a vampire, because he went out in the daytime without melting or shriveling up or whatever it was vampires did in the sunlight, but he wasn’t human either.  

"What are you?" she breathed, quickly backing away to the far end of the sofa. 

He bowed his head, his face darkening with shame. "I should go now," he murmured apologetically. "I have frightened you. I'm sorry." 

There was such pain in his face and voice that Buffy couldn't bear it. She grasped his sleeve and kept him seated on the sofa. He did not resist her, nor did he meet her hurt, but curious gaze. "It's okay, Blaz. I just wanted to know. I'm not sure it changes anything between us." She smiled painfully. "Unless you go around killing people after dark or something. That would put us on opposite sides of the battle. You know." 

He nodded. "Yes, I know. But I do not kill." 

She sighed. "That's a relief. So what are you?" 

He met her eyes in an uncertain sidelong gaze, and then he reached for her. He held her face in his hands, gently but firmly, and stole all her questions away with another kiss, deep and potent, filled with unspoken need. They fell slowly backward against the sofa cushions, Blaz lying lightly on her body, his weight resting on her, yet ready to spring back at the slightest hint that she didn't want him there. Buffy's arms came up around him, her hands caressed his smooth cheeks, his close-cropped hair, his broad shoulders and well muscled back. Emotion coursed freely between them, shared need and loneliness blazing up to burn in their souls as one.  

A memory of Angel flared up behind her eyes, but she pushed it away. He was gone, and she would never have him back again. She had to go on, to try to get out of life whatever good things she was given. And Blaz had potential. His potential carried her away quickly, and left her gasping when he pulled away. For a moment they just stared at each other, neither sure exactly what to do next. Buffy was ready for a new boyfriend if Blaz was willing, but she wanted to get to know him a little better before they got in too deep. _Just in case._

He seemed to understand her hesitation, and agreed with it. Blaz gave her another brief, yet soul-deep kiss and was gone, fleeing outside as the sun began to color the sky with a cloak of many colors, blanketing the world with the end of day. 

“No dancing, no movies. What a cheap date…” Buffy mused to herself. But she was glad things hadn’t gotten out of hand. Especially since she wasn’t sure exactly what sort of creature she was liking, except that he was a great kisser. 

Turning to the books laid open on the table, she forced herself to complete her homework assignment for a change and cleaned up in time for her mother to arrive with a promised dinner of Chinese take-out food.  

It was Buffy's habit to take a nap most afternoons in anticipation of the sleep she would be missing after dark during her hunts. As she lay down on her bed fully clothed, she wondered again what sort of creature Blaz might be, that his body was so cold, yet his spirit was so like hers. She closed her eyes and remembered the way he had kissed her, the gentleness mingled so profoundly with lonely passion, and she slept. 

Buffy sat up in bed as her mother’s voice announced her arrival home. It took her a few moments to waken completely, but she straightened her clothes and bounced downstairs for a few hours of normalcy, and talked to her mom about nothing just as if she was any other teenage girl. Sometimes she could even convince herself that she was. But not tonight.  

Hunting Time arrived sooner than she wanted, and she listened for her mother to start her nightly routine that meant bedtime in the Summers household. She kissed her mom good-night, then went to her room as if to go to bed. Buffy lay down and waited until she was sure her mom wouldn’t check by her room, then slipped out the window, down to the ground and headed straight for the cemetery. By the light of a waxing half moon, she wandered among the headstones and mausoleums, flashlight in hand, seeking out the newest grave to begin her watch. 

It took her about half an hour to find it, and she sat down on a stone bench nearby to await the arrival of Gwen Smith. 

Something moved in the deep shadows of a nearby stand of trees. Buffy turned her flashlight in that direction, but couldn't tell if it had been imagination or some large animal stepping on a twig. Her eyes darted toward the mausoleum just ahead, and she stared hard at the stone sculpture adorning the peaked marble roof.  

She didn't remember having seen a gargoyle there before. Her earlier conversation with Giles rang alarm bells, and she watched the statue for movement, listening for other visitors while she waited. 

Her patience was rewarded, but not quite like she expected. A silhouette came around the corner of the mausoleum, headed straight for her. The moonlight was bright enough to confirm that it was a vampire, and she shrugged her backpack off in anticipation of battle, taking a stake out of it and holding it surely in her hand. 

_It was Angelus._  

“Miss me?” he asked from a safe distance away. He kept out of range, walking a slow circle around her as she stood poised, ready for his attack. “I hear you’ve got a new boyfriend. You should warn him about me. Or maybe I’ll just make him a snack before dinner.” 

“Jealous much?” she goaded him. “What do you care? I can have a life, if I want.” 

“Not for long,” he promised darkly, with a leer.  

Three more vampires rushed out from behind the mausoleum and attacked while Angelus looked on. He folded his arms across his chest petulantly. “I told you guys I wanted her all to myself,” he groused. “But you get what you deserve. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

One of them disappeared in a cloud of dust seconds later, and Buffy concentrated on the other two, never losing track of where Angelus stood, just in case. And then one of the baddies pulled a gun. Buffy froze, completely unprepared for that tactic. 

“This was Spike’s idea,” said the vampire. “He sends his love.” The undead minion extended his arm and took aim, right between the Slayer’s eyes. 

But suddenly the vampire was covered in a black shadow and pinned to the ground. He pointed the pistol at the dark shape and fired. The bullet ricocheted off as if it had struck something hard and impacted into his companion as he turned to run away. The wounded vamp got up and tore out of the cemetery at full speed while the other lay screaming, thrashing, fighting for its undead life as the shadow fed on him until he shriveled into a dark stain on the ground. 

Buffy ran toward the thing, eager to see what had dispatched the vampire so completely, but not sure how she’d react if it came after her.  

She wasn't fast enough. The black shadow darted around the corner of the building and was gone before she reached it. Panting, she made a circuit of the whole mausoleum, scanning the garden of stone monuments as she ran, but there was no place for the creature to have gone. Except up. 

She shone the flashlight beam onto the roof, and there sat a stone sculpture she had seen earlier gazing peacefully outward, its hideous face twisted in a demented grin, as if it knew some hilarious secret that it chose not to share with anyone. Its position hadn’t changed, and Buffy wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. Too much slayage could indeed make a chick wig. 

“Hmmm. So you’ve got someone worthwhile to watch your back now,” mused Angelus from a little farther away. “Too bad he’s so shy. But then, he was an ugly son of a bitch, wasn’t he?” 

Buffy felt her cheeks heat up as her temper flared. She hated Angelus. But looking at that face made her ache for Angel, and she couldn’t hurt him. Both of them knew it. 

“Never judge a book by the cover, or haven’t you heard?” she shot back. “It’s what’s inside that counts.” 

Angelus chuckled, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “People don’t buy books unless they have pretty covers, Buffy. You _know_ that. They don’t _care_ what’s inside. People are placid, stupid cows grazing their way through life, and I’m getting hungry talking about this, so I think I’ll go hunt up your boyfriend. I hear he’s a real beefcake.” 

The Slayer knew he was just yanking her chain, and if she went to Blaz’s house right then, Angelus would follow her there just to locate him, if he didn’t already know where the boy lived. For the moment Blaz was safe, but she would have to tell him about the demon who stalked her by night. Then again, since Blaz wasn’t human either… 

She gazed up at the roof, at the cold marble statue perched on the mausoleum.  

“Maybe he’s not the Scooby snack you think he is,” she returned as she watched her former lover walk away. Quieter, more to herself, she added, “At least, I hope he’s not.” 

Buffy was certain the shadow she had seen was the gargoyle on the roof in action. And the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Mr. Cuteness by day could also be Mr. Ugly Rock Guy by night. Everything pointed in that direction, and she paid attention to pointy things. 

She returned to her bench to wait for Gwen, but the girl never showed. When fatigue began to overtake her, she returned home, climbed into her window and slept like the dead until morning.

Giles couldn't concentrate on his work. It seemed the books were becoming difficult to decipher as depression set in, and all he wanted to do was sleep. More and more often he called in sick, training Buffy at his apartment after hours and rarely bothering to dress.  For their workouts he wore gray sweats that she teased him should be re-done in tweed, but her jest went unnoticed and their matches grew shorter day by day. He barely reacted when Buffy mentioned how down everyone seemed to be, and it never entered his mind to research the phenomenon, even when it began to escalate. Thinking was too much of a chore, and he just didn't have the energy for it anymore. 

Death became almost a daily occurrence at the high school. No one seemed to be immune from the creeping gloom that spread out from there to shadow the whole town. And each day the stories of suicides grew more bizarre and frightening. 

Gary Magnus slit his own throat at his father's museum. The entire journalism staff at Sunnydale High drank an LSD/cyanide cocktail in the student lounge in the middle of the day. None of the recent suicides left notes regarding their reasons for dying, and the population was reeling from the impact of the unexplained deaths. Yet classes went on as usual, and the student body walked the halls like zombies, aimless and empty of heart. 

Until Trent Waters, an honor student and senior class president, came to school with a duffel bag full of pistols, a couple of shotguns and an excess of ammunition, and started shooting. Buffy took him out before he did any permanent damage, but it brought to light just how serious the problem in Sunnydale had become.  

Principal Snyder shut down classes and brought in counselors, attempting to head off the disaster that was drawing unpleasant national attention to the little California town. 

Depression drove people to their beds, sleeping their days and nights away. Businesses were closing as people ceased to do all but the most necessary shopping. It seemed as if the town was dying slowly, winding down to a stop like an old clock. 

Xander felt the grief, felt helpless in its grasp, but he was more concerned about Cordelia than himself. He had seen her at school after one of the counseling sessions, tears trickling down her flawless cheeks as she wandered toward the parking lot, and he knew she was on the verge of collapse. He had called her the night before, but she hadn't wanted to talk. It was all he could do to wait until morning, and now he stood in the parking lot, impatiently waiting for her to arrive. 

She walked right past him on her way inside, not bothering to offer him even the briefest greeting. 

He followed her in, terrified at her state of mind. Her clothes were wrinkled, as if she had slept in them. Her hair needed brushing, and she wasn't wearing a lick of makeup. That was _not_ Cordelia.  

She went into the auditorium with her worried boyfriend lurking at a respectful distance. Xander watched her speak privately with Mr. Luna, who stroked his hand lightly over her mussed hair, and strode silently offstage. A moment later the house lights went down and a spotlight fell on her, illuminating her beauty and the depths of her emotional plunge. A glass of water sat on a table directly behind her, and with mechanical precision she shrugged her teddy-bear backpack off her shoulders, opened the pouch and began to remove bottle after bottle of her mother's prescription medications and set them on the table beside the glass. 

"Oh, my God," Xander heard himself whisper. He dashed up the empty aisle and flung himself onto the stage as Cordelia opened the first bottle, dumped the entire contents into her delicate hand, and raised the glass to her lips. He raced to her and slapped the heap of pills from her hand, scattering them all over the floor. 

"Don't, Xander," Cordelia pleaded. "I can't do this anymore. You don't know how hard I work to be me. I'm tired. So tired." 

He took her in his arms and held her fiercely. "You _can_ hang on, Cordy. I'm here for you. We'll get through it together." She seemed to wilt against him, and he snatched her car keys from the table, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her seemingly boneless form outside into the sunshine. He set her gently in the passenger seat of her car, got behind the wheel and drove them to Lookout Point, high above the sleepy little town, and forced her into the back seat with him. 

He could have taken advantage of her then, but all he wanted to do was hold her. He kissed her, stroking her hair and whispering things he never thought he would say to any girl into her ear. Something in him knew they were fighting for their lives, and he was determined not to allow Cordelia to let go of hers so easily.  

Hours later she seemed to recover a little, and he drove her home, put her to bed and kissed her briefly, sweetly, certain now that she would be safe for the night. And Xander Harris walked to Sunnydale High School, headed straight for the library, and began to research the subject of supernatural depression on his own, without any help from the absent Watcher. Xander read with a vengeance, and by morning he had found a printed trail, and was following it diligently. Weariness overtook him around noon, and he slumped across the table for a moment's rest before picking up his paper quest once more.

 The fortune teller had promised him Cordelia. She had shown him that he would become a man to be reckoned with, that he would one day be both wealthy and powerful. But the future was very much a malleable substance, and one change in the pattern could affect everything, she had said. If he lost Cordy, the rest of it would probably disappear as well, and he did not want to be a prison guard for the rest of his life. He wanted the dream. He believed Cordelia was the key, and even though he lived in massive denial of the fact, he really cared about her. He would not lose her, not while he lived. She was a thorn in his side, as persistent as a rash, but he couldn’t give her up. He loved her, and that realization pushed him even harder to find an answer that would save her. 

But fatigue was a powerful enemy, and as his eyes finally closed to the siren song of sleep, he slipped into troubled dreams. He snored much of the day away, unaware of the turn the hunt was taking while he dreamt.

Buffy didn't expect to see Blaz at school while classes were suspended, but there he was, prowling the halls, peering into classrooms where group counseling sessions were in progress, talking quietly to students and teachers alike. She watched him from a distance, trying to avoid tipping him off to her presence, wanting to see if he was what he appeared to be, or a potential enemy. Instinct had already warned her after that first kiss, and she needed to know if he could be trusted or not.  

She saw a hunter following a trail, sniffing out a spoor with an educated nose. She saw a clever actor wearing a pleasant disguise designed to engender trust and affection. And she wondered if the things she had seen in him were real or simply a mirror he had put up to her to throw her off the scent. She didn't like being fooled, and determined not to fall for his act again. Whatever he was, he wasn’t human and she might have to fight him eventually. 

_Angelus, all over again._  

Blaz slowed his pace as he neared the auditorium. He seemed to creep even more stealthily, as if stalking something, sniffing the air for a scent Buffy couldn't sense. He slid noiselessly through the stage door, letting it close quietly behind him. 

Buffy ran down the hallway, around the drama classroom and into the public access doors near the ticket booths. She was grateful for the cover of darkness inside the auditorium as she hid behind the back row of seats, checking the stage for his presence. When she saw him appear from behind the curtains on the polished wooden floor of the stage, she froze and watched, waiting for her moment to act. 

Mr. Luna stood at stage center, exploring the props under the dim work lights high above. He glanced up as Blaz appeared from backstage, and for a moment, he said nothing. The drama teacher seemed to glow, as if illuminated by his own personal spotlight. He smiled, and laughed lightly. 

"We meet again, old friend," Luna said pleasantly. "Are you enjoying the show?" 

Blaz said nothing. He came forward slowly, his head down, glaring at the bright one from beneath heavy black brows. His form seemed to darken somehow, as if a shadow had fallen over him. 

_He remembered Sarajevo, and the song of the lonely cello. He watched from his perch high above as the soldiers came boldly into the square and threatened the musician with their guns. He saw the cellist's tears fall as he played on, closing his eyes so he would not see Death coming. And he heard the explosion of the gun, the ensuing silence, and the voice of water singing its sad song of delight. He saw the demon rise from the bloody pool, freed by the senseless violence and unreasoning hatred, and felt the worn stone shell protecting his formless body begin to crumble. The demon was free, and it was time for the hunt to begin. He followed the trail of despair halfway across the world, and now he stood face to face with his personal nemesis: Suti, eater of hearts and stealer of souls. Suti, the guardian of darkness._

"I will send you back to Hell," said Blaz defiantly. "I alone can hear your song of despair and not be swayed by it, Suti. I am the Unwavering Protector, and I will keep my promise to Humanity." 

"Even though they would despise you, should they see your true form?" Luna reminded him seductively. "You hide from them, lest they imprison you. Don't you find it wearying, having to wear this pretty shape to walk among them? Don't you long to be yourself, to be appreciated for who and what you are? Show them, my ugly friend. Show them your true form, and watch them flee in horror!" 

Blaz took another step toward him, raising one hand, fingers open, his flesh turning black from elbow to fingertips, long talons sprouting where blunt human nails had once been. 

Buffy knew then what he was. She bowed her head behind the row of empty seats and sighed. The sound echoed in the quiet dimness, and both of the Beings onstage turned toward it, unwilling to make their battle public. 

The Slayer stood up and sauntered down the aisle toward the stage. "Hi, guys. Can I play, too, or is this by invitation only?" she asked blithely. 

Suti used that moment to make his escape, and dashed out the side doors. Blaz ran after him, but by the time he emerged into the dying sunlight, the demon was gone. The gypsy boy raced back inside, leaped lightly off the raised stage and stood towering over her. 

"You must leave this battle to me," he warned reaching for Buffy with concern etched in his face. "This is a monster you cannot defeat, Slayer. In the aura of my presence he is no more powerful than you. But if you listen to his siren song, he will wear you down, and in the end, he will win." 

She shrugged and stepped backward out of his grasp. "Maybe I'm tone-deaf." Studying him with distrust gleaming brightly in her eyes, she added, "And I'm ready to take you on, too, if I have to." 

Blaz shook his head. "I will not fight you unless you get in my way," he assured her. "Suti is what I came her for. Now that I know what face he wears, I can finish the hunt. Stay away, I beg you. I do not want you hurt."  

"I don't break easily," she promised. "And it's kinda my job, too. That's what Slayers do." 

"Not this time. Save your strength for the vampires." The warning on his face was stern, but softened by genuine concern for her. He turned and leaped back up on the stage and jogged outside again, tracking what had brought him there in the first place. 

Buffy went to the library in search of Giles, hoping he would be there again, but found Xander snoring on a yellowed parchment on the study table instead. She touched him on the shoulder and he started awake, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and blinking at her. "Hey, Xander. Looks like you've been hard at work as a Watcher in training. I'm glad somebody's doing the job." 

He rubbed his face to try to wake up a little more, glanced at the paper in front of him and wondered what it was he had been looking for. Then it clicked. 

"I know what's happening to everyone, Buffy. There's this demon that 'feeds on self-inflicted injury and death,' called—" 

"Suti," she cut in. "Yeah. We just met. He's Mr. Luna, the drama teacher." 

He looked suddenly deflated. "Giles told you," he assumed. "Damn, after all that reading I did! What a waste of eyeballs!" He rubbed them for emphasis. 

"Actually, I got introduced by a friendly neighborhood gargoyle named Boo." 

"The gypsy kid?" He saw Buffy nod, and threw up his hands in resignation. "Just when I was starting to like the guy, and he turns out to be a monster. This Hellmouth thing is getting way out of hand." 

"So how do I fight the bad guy?" 

Xander sighed and glanced over the open books littering the dekstop. "I don't know. He's listed in some places as one of the Old Gods, whatever that means. He might not be killable." 

"There's a way," she said certainly. "There's gotta be." But she could see the hopelessness in his eyes, and feel the weight of possible defeat in her heart already.

Oz watched the sunset color the sky, and marveled at how beautiful it was. Before darkness and the moon swept him up in the coming change, he trudged downstairs to the basement, opened the newly built cell door, and locked himself inside. This time he was prepared with provisions: plenty of water and a tray of thawing fresh meat, as well as a stack of newspapers in the corner for tidiness. Everything had been planned in advance for him to wait out the morning safely, but plans had changed. He stripped down to his boxers to await werewolfness and marveled at the ironies life had thrown at him in his 18 years.  

The key to his cell was hanging not far away, where he could get at it once he was Oz again, but far enough away that the animal he was about to become wouldn't notice it. Not that he'd need it, though. He was about to turn into a monster for the second and last time. 

He lifted the container of rat poison off a nearby shelf, donned a pair of rubber gloves and started to rub it into the meat, tears streaming down his face as he worked. He couldn't do it consciously, but he knew this was the right thing to do. Life would be nothing but pain as a werewolf, and while Willow and their friends accepted what he was, there still loomed the possibility that he might one night lunch on one of them while in his primal state. He didn't want to live with that threat hanging over his head, not any more. 

"Oz?" 

He started and turned toward the staircase, panic starting to rise. "Go away, Willow," he ordered sharply. 

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right." She emerged into the basement, glancing around at the new digs with approval, her smile sad but hopeful. "You did a good job. Everything looks solid." She came up to the cage, glancing briefly at his boxers and blushing as she pointedly made eye contact and avoided the subject of Tigger underwear. "I wanted to stay with you for a little while, to make sure you were okay. Buffy's coming, too. Just in case." 

"Go home, Willow," Oz repeated. He wiped at a tear with his forearm, not wanting to rub the poison-caked glove into his eye. "You shouldn't be here. Not now." 

Willow noticed the gloves then, and saw the label on the can of rat poison nearby. "Oz!" she cried. "No! Don't you dare!" She grabbed the key and started to open the door, but he reached through the bars and fought her, pushing her hands away. "Stop it, Oz. You're getting that stuff on me!" 

He argued with her, feeling the darkness coming now, trying desperately to keep her safe. They were still struggling when Buffy came down the steps a moment later. She took in the scene in the basement quickly, and once she understood she yanked the gloves off Oz through the bars, commanding Willow to go wash up. It only took a moment for the change to begin, and while Oz fell to the floor, writhing in pain as his bones began to change shape, Buffy opened the cage and retrieved the meat and poison container, pouring out the water in his dish in case he had doctored that also. He was on his feet as she clanged the door shut and locked it, jerking the key out as he lunged at her, howling in frustration as she backed away. 

Willow sat on a nearby workbench, weeping uncontrollably. Buffy sat down and cried with her, holding her in sympathy as their world crumbled around them. No one seemed to notice when a fourth person joined them, watching from a dark corner and smiling as he sang his melodious, mesmerizing song of despair. Suti watched the werewolf sulk and lie down listlessly on the floor of his cage, watched with delight as the two girls ceased to cry and sat silently together on the bench. Under his influence they retrieved the container of poison and fetched a pair of glasses from the kitchen, filled with water. Buffy measured out a large dose into each glass, picked up the poisoned meat and prepared to throw it back into the cage for Oz. 

She hesitated, staring at the bloody steak in her hand, frowning at it as if trying to figure out what she was doing. She set it down again, poured out the water into the basement sink and began to wash her hands. Buffy was trembling and frightened by her behavior, and glanced around the shadowy room.  

A handsome man stood in the corner, glowing softly with pale light. 

"You can't live like this," cooed Suti, his golden eyes sparkling with hunger. "As the Slayer, you'll have no life. You'll never marry and have children, or pursue a career. You'll fight vampires and demons for another few years, until one of them kills you and the next Slayer is called. And in a few more years, no one will even remember you existed. It's pointless to go on, Buffy. Take the easy way out. Stop the pain. You don't want to hurt like this any more." 

His voice was gentle, fluid like the sound of falling water, musical and seductive, filled with the promise of sweet peace. Buffy turned toward the discarded meat, and took a mechanical step toward it. She saw the Oz-wolf lift his head, sniffing at the scent of fresh meat and licking his sharp-toothed jaws in anticipation. His tail thumped expectantly. 

"That's it. Good girl. Be kind to your friends. They don't want to live like this either. You know they don't." 

A great sob shook her, and she dropped the steak to the floor, putting her bloody hands to her face as she fought the urge to obey.  

"Stop it!" she wailed, and fell to her knees, hands clasped over her ears as she tried to shut him out. But his voice was inside her, speaking directly into her soul. She trembled with fear and rage, fury swelling up in her, fighting against the desire to die. 

"Only one thing will stop the pain, Buffy," said Suti huskily. He crept closer, feeding on the bleakness, enhancing it, reveling in it. This would be his greatest kill yet, one that would keep him sated for eons to come. "End it now. It's the right thing to do." 

But Buffy wasn't ready to give in. She struggled to her feet and faced him, gathered her remaining strength and attacked. Suti seemed unprepared for that, and her first strike bashed him against the wall.  

He was furious. Snarling with rage, he sent her flying across the room with a glance, slamming her lithe body against the bars of the cage. Buffy slid downward into a crouch, then rose and rushed at him again. And bounced off before she got there. 

"What are you made of, Silly Putty?" she snapped, fighting back tears. Part of her wanted to give up, realizing the futility of her efforts against him. But that went completely against her nature. So she fought on, regardless of the odds. That was what made her different from other Slayers. She would _not_ just lie down and die when she was supposed to. 

A shadow swept down the stairs and hissed at Willow as she reached for the discarded can of poison. She recoiled at the sight of the creature hovering over her, and backed against the steel bars of the cage, sliding down them to huddle on the floor. Moving faster than the eye could follow, the shadow-beast grabbed the tainted meat and slung it at the bright figure in the corner.    

Luna ducked. 

Buffy glanced at the gargoyle. “You rain on this guy’s parade, right?” she called to him, then, thinking he might not understand, she asked, “He’s weaker when you’re around?” 

She thought she felt a little better herself, and briefly wondered if that was Blaz’s doing. 

The gargoyle nodded but didn’t reply, and Buffy backed away for a kick to Suti's handsome head.  

“Then let’s double team him!” she cried between blows. She fought wildly, smashing Suti into walls, careening up the stairs after him and into the house with the gargoyle in hot pursuit, trading licks of his own when she paused to gather herself for another strike.  

Out into the night the trio tore, up the vacant street, ever westward. The Slayer and the shadow creature chased the bright demon, herding him all the way to the cemetery. Suti seemed as fresh as ever, undaunted by the long run and the fierce struggle, but Buffy was tiring and the gargoyle took up the slack until the skirmish reached its final destination. They were moving through the cemetery now, and Suti tried to take advantage of the open space to run away, but Buffy was recovered enough to intercept him with a flying kick which sent him reeling into the gargoyle’s arms. The dark Being took hold of the creature of light, strangling it into submission, and dragged it toward a fountain still under construction in the midst of the cemetery. With a powerful roar the shadow thrust the demon into the central pillar and held it there, its clawed hand disappearing into the stone sculpture along with the bright shape of the handsome drama teacher.  

After a moment, a trickle of water began to flow from the jar held by the centerpiece, a dynamically beautiful white marble angel, and then the trickle became a flood that filled the fountain basin and poured over into a larger pool below. 

The dark creature drew its arm from within the stone angel's body and stepped back, leathery wings spread, to listen to the sound of the peacefully falling water. 

The crushing depression lifted immediately from the Slayer, and she stared at the thing standing with its back to her near the fountain. The sense of impending danger was gone, and in its wake a sense of tremendous relief blossomed inside her. She eased slowly closer, her eyes now adjusted to the moonlight that clearly revealed the hideous shape of the creature standing watch. 

"You could have told me what you were," she said after a moment. "That you're one of the Good Guys." 

The gargoyle's head jerked around to face her, its eyes glowing blue-white in the semi-darkness. "Would you have believed me?" it said with Blaz Camlo's soft voice. "If you knew I was this, would you have trusted me?" 

Buffy pondered this. She had seen a lot in the last year or so, and had the lesson of things not always being what they seemed rammed home over and over again. She lifted her chin proudly, and nodded. "Yeah, I think so. You were right about us being alike." 

"You are beautiful, Buffy," he said sadly. He almost reached out to touch her face, but drew back at the last moment in shame, and turned away. "We are not alike." 

"Yeah. We are. Both alone. Both fighting to protect others." She took his retreating hand in hers and held it, squeezing it warmly. "So what do you do now?" Gazing up into his face was getting easier. Every moment she could see more of Blaz's kindness and concern in it. 

He sighed. "Now I begin my vigil once more. Suti is my responsibility, and I will watch over him for all eternity." He glanced up at the mausoleum towering over the scene not far away. "I will sit there and sleep in stone until the voice of water falls silent, and he rises again." 

Buffy felt a lump rising in her throat as another goodbye reared its ugly head. "I don't suppose you get time off on weekends, or vacations and stuff?" she inquired hopefully. 

Blaz smiled, and a gruff chuckle erupted from him. "You are a Slayer like no other," he commented admiringly. "And I wish I could--" 

He turned abruptly away, his sentence cut off by his rising emotions. He was not allowed the luxury of wishes and desires. He was the Unwavering Protector, Blaz Camlo, the Dark One. He was one of the Fallen, whose repentance was his salvation and his damnation all at the same time. He turned back to her hesitantly, and folding his wings, he opened his arms to her, hoping she would not scorn him as others of her kind had done in the past. 

Buffy fell into his embrace without hesitation, pressing her cheek against his cold chest and surrounding him with her arms in return. She couldn't stop the tears that trickled across her cheeks and fell against his stony skin, and didn't want to.  

"Will you be able to hear me if I come to talk to you now and then?" she asked hesitantly. 

His voice was deep now, rumbling like thunder in his chest and in her ears. "I will hear you, and see you, and if you should need me in this dark and lonely place, I will come to you. But I cannot wander from my station, Buffy. I shall be here forever, or until the demon is freed again." 

She nodded against him, and pulled away. Blinking back tears, she watched him fade into the shadows, leap up lightly to the apex of the mausoleum's roof and crouch on all fours, wings spread slightly, his head turned in the direction of the fountain. In the cold illumination from the full moon, his form seemed to solidify and take on the grainy surface of weathered granite. After that, he didn't move. 

Buffy watched him for a long time, and as she turned to go she spared a glance at the fountain, gleaming whitely in the silver moonlight.  

"Beauty and the Beast," she said softly. "Boy, was that story all wrong." She walked slowly out of the cemetery, lost in thought, headed for Oz's house to make sure he and Willow were safe.

Buffy arrived in the wee hours of morning at the fortune teller's house to find them packing their belongings into a station wagon and a pickup truck. Mahmood continued loading up the vehicles, but Madame Yeva invited her into the house, offering her a seat on a large crate filled with statuary, but the Slayer declined. 

"I came to tell you that Blaz won't be coming home," the teenager began. "He's finished his job here. I thought I should let you know so you won't wait up for him." 

"That was very thoughtful," Madame Yeva returned with a smile. "Will you let me read the cards for you now? There are things you should know. Things to prepare for." 

The woman seemed so earnest and concerned that Buffy shrugged and gave in. 

Madame Yeva pulled the strange deck of cards from the wooden box still sitting on the table and had Buffy hold it, shuffle the deck and hand it back to her before laying them out in the circular pattern she had used the last time. 

"Why a circle?" the girl asked. "I thought the cards were always laid out in, like, squares or something." 

Yeva smiled to herself. "This is a special arrangement, because you're the Slayer. You're one of those who lives many times, and this reflects the circle of your present life."  

Once again, Death and the Lovers took center stage, but many of the other cards had changed. Buffy kept her shivers to herself and waited. 

"You will live a long life," said the gypsy as she laid the last card in place. "You will be a legend among Slayers." 

"Yeah?" Buffy inquired hopefully. "That could be a good thing." 

Yeva's face darkened. "But you'll lose many who are close to you." She pointed at a card picturing a tree cut off from its roots. "You must be strong, Slayer. You must strive to keep the scales balanced." 

"Which means… what?" Buffy was frowning at the cards. Her eyes kept wandering back to the central pair of cards, and goosebumps raised on her arms in response. _Angelus._  

"For every bad thing that happens to you, seek the good things in life to balance it out. And for every good thing you enjoy, be prepared for something equally evil to follow it. Balance is the most important thing. It will keep you alive. Beware sorrow, Slayer. And beware joy as well." 

Buffy frowned. "So if I don't have any fun, I won't have to wig either?" 

Yeva chuckled and patted Buffy's hand warmly. "No, my friend. One follows the other, in an endless cycle. Be aware when you have one that the other is coming." 

"Oh." 

The girl stared at those two center cards, thinking. Remembering. She pointed at them. "So what about that? The change in my love life?"

 The gypsy smiled, and something mysterious sparkled in her deep blue eyes. "It's coming. But you won't be ready for it when it comes."

"Everything's back to normal," Buffy said aloud as she propped the ladder against the roof. "If you can call the Hellmouth normal." She climbed up the ladder she had brought with her all the way to the top rung, then reached as far as her lithe body extended to the apex of the marble roof. Using a curl in the facade ornamentation as a foothold, she scaled the roof and sat straddling the peak, facing the statue in the light of a waning moon. 

"Willow and Oz are fine. Cordelia and Xander are fighting again, so they're okay. Xander hasn't cracked a book since Mr. Luna conveniently disappeared, and Giles is up to his tweed lapels in research again. Life goes on." 

She chatted about recent events, recounting her feelings and fears, gazing at the unmoving stone face turned away from her, the unseeing eyes looking toward the fountain instead. Her perch grew uncomfortable, and she adjusted herself, sitting on the creature's front feet. She wriggled back into the enclosed space, pleased with the sensation of an almost-embrace, and continued her monologue for another hour, watching the graves all around for signs of trouble rising from them. But the night was quiet and she grew sleepy, and gave up her watch with a fond kiss on the gargoyle's stone cheek. 

Buffy climbed carefully back down the ladder and put it away inside the mausoleum for future use. She leaned against the crypt wall for a moment, once again contemplating the beauty of the stone angel and the demon it held. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sound of falling water, trying to hear the demon's siren song that Blaz had mentioned, but in his prison the song had no effect on her or anyone else, save the sensation of blissful peace and quietude. 

She remembered how it had felt when Blaz had kissed her, and longing made her wrap her arms around herself for the comfort no one else could provide. Finally relaxing, she squatted down to where she had left the boom box and turned on the CD she had brought with her. It had been a long search to find that Mozart piece she and Blaz had heard on the radio, but she had finally done it, and promised herself to come out and play it for him occasionally.  

"This is for you, Boo," she whispered as the strains of the melancholy cello sang above the voice of water.  

The night was clear, not a cloud in the sky, but as Buffy stood below the mausoleum a drop of water fell from above onto her shoulder. She glanced upward, and in the fading glow of moonlight, she saw the glimmer of tears on the stone face of the eternal watcher, protector of Humanity. The blessing of this music was the least she could do for him, and knowing what his future looked like, hers seemed just a little brighter.

But time passed, and at every major event in her life, Buffy remembered the gypsy's warning. She tried to be prepared for everything. Some things, though, she couldn't foresee, and Angelus had a knack for hitting her blindside. 

For her 18th birthday, he gave Buffy her father's head in a beautifully wrapped package, covered in gold foil angels.  

For Valentine's Day, he gave her Joyce Summers' heart on the coffee table, sans wrapping, tied in a scrap of fine white lace soaked in blood. 

Buffy didn't celebrate her move into legal adulthood, nor did she hunt as Slayerhood demanded. Instead, she buried her parents, settled their affairs and moved into an apartment in the same building as Giles, and rested. There was little time before the hunt had to begin, but Buffy spent every spare moment preparing. She read every volume on Angelus and his laundry list of sick, twisted tricks. She learned his battle tactics and queried Giles about the demon vampire's psychology. As much as she would have liked to remain a child for a little while longer, Buffy Summers grew up quickly. 

By day she attended school like every good teen at Sunnydale was supposed to, but by night she was working herself to exhaustion with new combat techniques, new weapons and old alike, pouring herself into her role as Slayer with a vengeance. 

And on the ides of March she began the hunt, prowling all his favorite drinking places, watching for some sign of his presence. He still left her little gifts now and then, gifts that would dig their way out of coffins in the cemetery and charge at her with ravenous intent, but they were hardly more than light exercise now. She rarely broke a sweat before the dust cloud poofed. 

Spring brought lots of rain with it that year, which kept vampire and victim alike mostly indoors, and on the first night of April, still heavy with moisture blowing in from the coast, the lack of precipitation drove starving vamps out _en masse._ Buffy had a busy night, starting just after dark in the alley behind the Bronze, but inexorably she made her way to the cemetery before midnight, stakes in hand, to await the newly undead and get a little rest until the party started. 

She did not climb the mausoleum to visit with her stone friend as she had often done, but the boom box she kept hidden in the mausoleum played the soothing strains of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven while she waited, and while she worked. 

Buffy was tired and damp as the fog rolled in, eager for the first signs of gray dawn that her wristwatch told her would be coming soon. She needed to go home so she could fall into bed, to relax into the dreamless slumber that would free her of the weighty burden she carried. As the last of the music faded into silence, she rose from the stone bench and reached for the boom box when dark shapes suddenly began to materialize out of the gray-white mists. 

She counted five of them and took her stance with a stake in each hand, ready for one last battle. She didn't recognize any of the faces as the vampires approached, but they did not attack. They simply stood in a semi-circle around her, and waited. 

"It's All Fool's Day, Buffy," said a familiar voice behind her. "What a day to die." 

She pivoted on her heel to face Angelus, aware of the others behind her and prepared to move if they did, but more than ready for this fight in particular. This was what she had come for, the main event. 

She didn't respond to his goad with her usual flippant wit. She was too tired for that, and too ready to kill him. The last memories of her parents surfaced with white-hot pain, burning away her fatigue in an instant. 

He smiled. "Dru was a babbling idiot by this time in our relationship," he mused, his dark eyes sparkling with mad pleasure. "But you… You're made of stronger stuff. I'm going to enjoy breaking you in half. You bend so nicely." He chuckled softly to himself then. "And maybe I'll give you another good tumble before I turn you. Hopefully you've learned a little more about how it's done, and won't bore me to tears this time. Virginity is so tiresome, don't you agree?" 

She knew what he was doing, goading her into moving before she was ready. That was a tactic he used, his tongue often winning his battles for him because his victim was too overwrought with fear or anger to think clearly. But she was ready for that, and tucked away the fomenting rage for later.  

"Now, Angelus?" inquired one of the vampires behind her. 

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and cocked his head, studying her. "Sure. Have a little fun. Just don't kill her." 

The others struck as one, and with all her strength and skill she was still sadly outmatched. Weary from a long night of fighting, she took out two of them before she began to fail. One of them tripped her and she brought him down with her, staking him on the ground, but then the other two caught her by the arms and hauled her upright between them just as half a dozen more materialized out of the fog. 

Buffy didn't whimper as she looked defeat in the eye. She stood as straight as her tired body would allow, and lifted her chin in defiant silence. 

"You're mine again, Buffy," Angelus breathed as he moved in close. A trickle of blood trailed from her split lip down to her chin. He licked it away and shivered with delight. "A Slayer's blood is always the tastiest. Such a potent vintage, full bodied and fragrant. I'll feast on you slowly, 'til you beg me to take you again." 

"Sorry, I gave up necrophilia," she growled. 

Angelus stepped back and raised his hands. A blade appeared in one of them and he lashed out with it, leaving a shallow cut across her upper chest. Blood from the cut ran in tiny rivulets toward her v-neck blouse. "Come on, everybody have a taste! But no biting. Just a little lick is all you get." 

Buffy had revived slightly from her moments of rest, and lashed out with her feet at the first in line. She tore one arm free and tossed her other captor to the ground, planning to run for it and waiting for daylight to save her. But they were on her like a pack of wolves, hungry wolves mad for the scent of fresh blood, and she didn't get far. 

She fought grimly with the last of her fading strength, unwilling to give up or give in. 

And then suddenly the vampires scattered away from her as a dark shape appeared in their midst. One vamp screamed as sharp teeth bit into his shoulder, and Buffy watched in horrified awe as the demon disappeared, sucked neck first into a black hole. Another one vanished into the shadow, and then the creature's eyes began to glow, cutting like lasers through the fog. The earthbound cloud began to fade away from the melee, clearing first around the mausoleum, then pushing back to the edges of the cemetery. 

The gargoyle stood with spread wings, darting into clusters of the undead to claim its victims, thinning out their numbers while Buffy fought valiantly on. 

She had no more stakes with her and in the dimness couldn't see the ones she had lost earlier, but after a moment more she didn't need them as Angelus swept up behind her. He caught her in a powerful embrace, one arm tucked beneath her chin, the other wrapped snugly around her waist. He was holding her up as much as imprisoning her, and she sagged against him. A single tear spilled down her cheek as she prepared to say goodbye to her mortality. 

Then the battle was over, and what was left of Angelus's army fled for their own survival. The great beast faced the last two figures on the field, its glowing eyes burning electric blue as its anger flared. 

"Let her go," said the gargoyle. 

"She's mine," argued Angelus. "Always has been. Even now, after I've hurt her so much, she still can't kill me. Can you, sweetheart?" He kissed her neck tenderly, without even the lightest scrape of teeth. The smell of her blood so close gnawed at his belly, and he felt himself hardening with desire. "Mine," he whispered against her sweaty skin. "All mine. _Forever."_

"I will kill you for her, then," the beast promised, and took a step closer. 

Buffy shook her head, partly to dislodge Angelus from her neck, partly to negate the offer. "Don't, Blaz," she ordered. "He's right. I _don't_ want him to die." She took a deep breath, trying to gain as much rest from his support as possible, and calm her labored breathing. She saw the confusion in the creature's hideous expression, but was certain the emotion in her eyes spoke volumes. "I want him to live forever. But I want him to feel my pain every second of it. I want him to get his soul back." 

She knew that was impossible, but wanted to earn another few moments to make her final statement. Every second that passed brought her closer. She would tell Blaz that, in lieu of Angel's return, she wanted to do the staking herself, certain that the gargoyle would help her do it. 

But he smiled instead. It was a frightening sight, and Buffy heard herself gasp. 

"A fitting punishment," the shadow said. He seemed to thin out, losing substance until his shape became transparent. He lifted his taloned hands before him in prayer, speaking in a language never before heard by human ears, each word echoing with the rumble of thunder, and as he parted his palms a moment later a spark of light glowed between them. It grew in size and brightness until it filled his grasp and made his audience squint to look at it. 

Then, with the speed of a bolt of lightning he rushed forward, plunging his shadow-hands and the glowing ball right into the middle of Buffy's chest. 

She screamed and stiffened against Angelus in expected agony, but her feet were rooted to the spot and she couldn't move. A second later she discovered she was still alive, and stared down at the impossible sight of the creature's arms sticking into her body up to the elbows.  

There was no pain. 

_None._

And then she heard the sound of her months of suffering pouring out of the throat behind her, felt Angelus's body writhing, fighting, anguish searing every facet of his being. His arms dropped away, pushed at her, but he couldn't break free of his union with her. 

Blaz yanked free of them and the vampire crumpled to the ground. The gargoyle stood watching as Buffy turned to see Angelus struggling, holding himself in unspeakable torment, arching stiffly off the ground. Gradually the struggles ceased and he lay still. 

Buffy nudged his body with her toe, half expecting Angelus to grab her ankle and drag her down to the ground, but he didn't move. 

Dawn was coming. The remaining mist diffused the brightening sunlight enough that she could see more clearly. She picked up a stake from where she had dropped it earlier and came to kneel beside the vampire's body. Rolling him over onto his back without resistance, she took a good, long last look at his face, feeling incredible triumph surging through her. She smiled at him coldly, ready to keep the promise she’d made to her dead family. 

He met her gaze without expression, and as she moved her hand toward his chest he acted. His raised his hands, grasped the plackets of his shirt and ripped it open, popping buttons everywhere. He exposed his bare chest to her and held the clothing out of her way. 

She stopped, the tip of the well-sharpened stake poking painfully against his skin. 

"Do it, Buffy," he pleaded, the edge of malicious humor completely gone from his voice, leaving only tender anguish and incredible sorrow in its wake. _"Please._ I don't want to live with what I did to you." 

Green eyes glimmering with barely leashed rage, she looked back at his face and saw tears trickling down his temples. The gargoyle had worked the magic she had prayed for long ago, and now the man she once loved was back. But it was too late for both of them. 

She stood up slowly, still staring down at him. "I want you to live with it, Angel." 

The vampire relaxed against the earth and closed his eyes, giving himself up to the coming dawn. "Please, Buffy. If you ever loved me…" 

The Slayer stepped away, intending to offer her thanks to the gargoyle for his aid, but he was already back at his post on the mausoleum roof. She promised herself to do that later on. The gleam of first light was approaching, and Buffy wanted to make sure her wish wasn't wasted too quickly. She dragged Angel's inert body into the shelter of the mausoleum and closed the door behind her so the sun wouldn't touch him. 

And then she went home to bed, sleeping soundly until darkness returned. She went back to the mausoleum alone and opened the door slowly, expecting Angel to be gone by this time. He sat in a corner, curled up on himself, weeping like a child. 

"Welcome back, Angel," said Buffy flatly. She left the door propped open to the night and hauled her ladder out. To the tune of something by Wagner she climbed to the roof and waited in the arms of her stone companion for the vampire to leave. She would watch him suffer as she had, and when she felt he’d enough, she would offer him the mercy he had denied her.  

Unless her Slayerhood ended before she was ready, and then he would go on suffering until some other Slayer got lucky. 

He emerged into the darkness eventually and searched for her, finding her perched above and glaring down on him coldly.  

Angel stumbled out of the cemetery, alone, cut off from others of his kind and from the woman he loved, while Buffy the Slayer sat in the half-embrace of her stone friend and savored her revenge, listening to the placid song of falling water. It was peace of a sort, though she knew it wouldn't last. Something always happened to screw things up when they were right.  

But this time, she'd be ready for anything... 

_...except love._


End file.
